There are some things Dean Winchester doesn't want you to know...
Title: There are some things Dean Winchester doesn't want you to know...
Author: ZanneS
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG (minimal bad language)
Character: Dean
Summary: There are some things Dean Winchester doesn't want you to know - an introspective look at Dean.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
tigriswolf for beta-ing! Kripke owns everything, even though I asked Santa for my own Winchester playset for Christmas.
There are some things Dean Winchester doesn’t want you to know….
Even after twenty-some years, Dean Winchester still gets sick from the scent of cooking meat. Beef is the worst. From the time he was four until he was eight, he threw up every time he smelled a steak or walked by a home having a summer barbecue - let’s not even mention the Fourth of July. He could only eat his meals when they were long cold and everything had the homogenous smell of stale grease. His dad thought something was wrong and took him to a doctor who told him it was just a young boy being a fussy eater. His dad didn’t have much patience for it after that and he quickly learned to quell the roil in his belly by stuffing as much food into his mouth as he could. It’s not so much of a problem now, but his stomach still gives a funny lurch if the scent is too strong.
He never consciously made the connection, but his belly remembers in a way he can’t.
Dean Winchester doesn’t really like pool. He’d prefer a good game of b-ball on a blacktop court - shirts and skins. He likes to be part of a team, feel the sun burning his nose and the ache in his muscles from a rough quarter. He can make nine free throws out of ten and can sink a three-pointer hitting nothing but net. At one high school, the coach asked him to be on the team after watching him during PE, told him he was good enough to get a scholarship if he put in his time, but his family packed up and left only a few days later. Pool is a loner’s game and Dean Winchester doesn’t ever want to be alone - not really.
Not like his dad.
Unlike the stories he tells to whoever listens, Dean Winchester couldn’t hit a target until he was 10. He says he was 6, but the scent of the gun powder and the heavy weight of the gun in his hand threw him off - twisted his equilibrium ‘til he felt like he was going to fall over any minute. Didn’t even help to pretend he was Hannibal or Magnum with the cool cars. He’d shut his eyes, the recoil almost knocking him on his ass every time. He didn’t like holding something so dangerous in his hands, fearing he’d make a mistake, not wanting to see the spray of blood erupting from the body. Things changed after the shtriga.
He finally realized why it was so important to keep his eyes open, to keep shooting until he was sure it was dead - and then to keep on shooting until the chamber clicked empty.
Dean Winchester never had a real job. He hustled - pool - for cash, scammed a few people with the ease of his smile, but he never had to wake up at 6:00 and work ‘til 5:00, coming home to cook some dinner and crash in front of the TV before starting all over again the next morning. He never had to worry about paying the electric bill or choosing what dental plan he wanted. He always says that nothing sounds worse than being stuck in the same place day after day, breathing recycled air as your brain rots in your head from pure boredom.
He’s never had a real job, but he wants one.
When he was sixteen years old, Dean Winchester was going to be a father. It scared the shit out of him. He drove his sometime girlfriend, crying quietly in the passenger seat the whole way there and back, to the clinic and half an hour later he wasn’t going to be a father anymore. He knew it would be too much responsibility, too dangerous a weight in the world he lived in…plus, his father would have killed him. He was already taking care of Sammy - a baby would’ve been too much. What kind of father could he make when he didn’t even know if he’d still be alive the next morning? He was sure it was the right thing to do.
Sometimes, he still wonders what color her eyes would have been.
Dean Winchester once drove through the desert where the reception was so bad, only a single station came through. He’d accidentally left his tapes behind with his dad when cleaning the car so he’d been stuck with whatever offerings came over the radio for the past three days. He finally found a channel that was audible when he turned the volume all the way up, coming through clear as crystal. When he heard the strains of a cello spilling from the speakers, he nearly turned it off, but the burdensome silence and the starkness of the night outside made the need for the company of any noise itch along his spine. He left it on, and as Beethoven slid into Handel, filling the night with an endless stream of oil-slick notes, he felt himself relaxing, his mind free of the weight of what he’d done in the darkness behind him.
He still listens to classical music in the middle of the night when Sam’s too deep asleep to hear - and if his brother wakes up in the seat beside him, he pretends he’s switching channels until he hears something more familiar throbbing from the speakers.
The only reason - well, not the only reason, but an important one - Dean Winchester sleeps with so many women is not to be alone. Sure, he likes the taste of them, the feel of them under his hands and around his dick; he likes to hear the sounds they make when they orgasm. The noise helps to block out the endless rattling his brain - all the what if’s and woulda’s and shoulda’s. When he’s alone, he has time to think and he never likes what thoughts occupy his brain. Not only do these women allow him to pretend his life is different, but they make him feel needed. He’d rather be alone with a whole roomful of women, even if none of them remember his name later. They need him, at least for a little while.
The only person he doesn’t want to be alone with is himself because he’d have no idea what to say.
Dean Winchester loves his brother more than anything else in this world - even his car. When he was younger, he would settle his hand over his brother’s heart just to reassure himself it was still beating, falling asleep to the rhythmic thub-dub thub-dub throbbing under his palm - the Song of Sammy, like one of Pastor Jim’s Bible stories. He can’t even begin to explain it - it’s something almost as necessary as breathing. He means that literally, too; the entire time Sam was…gone, it felt like he didn’t breathe at all. He can’t live without knowing his brother’s around somewhere, even if it’s somewhere far away from him. He says he doesn’t want Sam to know.
Sometimes, he’s afraid Sam really doesn’t.
There’s a lot about Dean Winchester that you don’t know. He’s good at keeping secrets…especially his own.
Author: ZanneS
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG (minimal bad language)
Character: Dean
Summary: There are some things Dean Winchester doesn't want you to know - an introspective look at Dean.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
tigriswolf for beta-ing! Kripke owns everything, even though I asked Santa for my own Winchester playset for Christmas.
There are some things Dean Winchester doesn’t want you to know….
Even after twenty-some years, Dean Winchester still gets sick from the scent of cooking meat. Beef is the worst. From the time he was four until he was eight, he threw up every time he smelled a steak or walked by a home having a summer barbecue - let’s not even mention the Fourth of July. He could only eat his meals when they were long cold and everything had the homogenous smell of stale grease. His dad thought something was wrong and took him to a doctor who told him it was just a young boy being a fussy eater. His dad didn’t have much patience for it after that and he quickly learned to quell the roil in his belly by stuffing as much food into his mouth as he could. It’s not so much of a problem now, but his stomach still gives a funny lurch if the scent is too strong.
He never consciously made the connection, but his belly remembers in a way he can’t.
Dean Winchester doesn’t really like pool. He’d prefer a good game of b-ball on a blacktop court - shirts and skins. He likes to be part of a team, feel the sun burning his nose and the ache in his muscles from a rough quarter. He can make nine free throws out of ten and can sink a three-pointer hitting nothing but net. At one high school, the coach asked him to be on the team after watching him during PE, told him he was good enough to get a scholarship if he put in his time, but his family packed up and left only a few days later. Pool is a loner’s game and Dean Winchester doesn’t ever want to be alone - not really.
Not like his dad.
Unlike the stories he tells to whoever listens, Dean Winchester couldn’t hit a target until he was 10. He says he was 6, but the scent of the gun powder and the heavy weight of the gun in his hand threw him off - twisted his equilibrium ‘til he felt like he was going to fall over any minute. Didn’t even help to pretend he was Hannibal or Magnum with the cool cars. He’d shut his eyes, the recoil almost knocking him on his ass every time. He didn’t like holding something so dangerous in his hands, fearing he’d make a mistake, not wanting to see the spray of blood erupting from the body. Things changed after the shtriga.
He finally realized why it was so important to keep his eyes open, to keep shooting until he was sure it was dead - and then to keep on shooting until the chamber clicked empty.
Dean Winchester never had a real job. He hustled - pool - for cash, scammed a few people with the ease of his smile, but he never had to wake up at 6:00 and work ‘til 5:00, coming home to cook some dinner and crash in front of the TV before starting all over again the next morning. He never had to worry about paying the electric bill or choosing what dental plan he wanted. He always says that nothing sounds worse than being stuck in the same place day after day, breathing recycled air as your brain rots in your head from pure boredom.
He’s never had a real job, but he wants one.
When he was sixteen years old, Dean Winchester was going to be a father. It scared the shit out of him. He drove his sometime girlfriend, crying quietly in the passenger seat the whole way there and back, to the clinic and half an hour later he wasn’t going to be a father anymore. He knew it would be too much responsibility, too dangerous a weight in the world he lived in…plus, his father would have killed him. He was already taking care of Sammy - a baby would’ve been too much. What kind of father could he make when he didn’t even know if he’d still be alive the next morning? He was sure it was the right thing to do.
Sometimes, he still wonders what color her eyes would have been.
Dean Winchester once drove through the desert where the reception was so bad, only a single station came through. He’d accidentally left his tapes behind with his dad when cleaning the car so he’d been stuck with whatever offerings came over the radio for the past three days. He finally found a channel that was audible when he turned the volume all the way up, coming through clear as crystal. When he heard the strains of a cello spilling from the speakers, he nearly turned it off, but the burdensome silence and the starkness of the night outside made the need for the company of any noise itch along his spine. He left it on, and as Beethoven slid into Handel, filling the night with an endless stream of oil-slick notes, he felt himself relaxing, his mind free of the weight of what he’d done in the darkness behind him.
He still listens to classical music in the middle of the night when Sam’s too deep asleep to hear - and if his brother wakes up in the seat beside him, he pretends he’s switching channels until he hears something more familiar throbbing from the speakers.
The only reason - well, not the only reason, but an important one - Dean Winchester sleeps with so many women is not to be alone. Sure, he likes the taste of them, the feel of them under his hands and around his dick; he likes to hear the sounds they make when they orgasm. The noise helps to block out the endless rattling his brain - all the what if’s and woulda’s and shoulda’s. When he’s alone, he has time to think and he never likes what thoughts occupy his brain. Not only do these women allow him to pretend his life is different, but they make him feel needed. He’d rather be alone with a whole roomful of women, even if none of them remember his name later. They need him, at least for a little while.
The only person he doesn’t want to be alone with is himself because he’d have no idea what to say.
Dean Winchester loves his brother more than anything else in this world - even his car. When he was younger, he would settle his hand over his brother’s heart just to reassure himself it was still beating, falling asleep to the rhythmic thub-dub thub-dub throbbing under his palm - the Song of Sammy, like one of Pastor Jim’s Bible stories. He can’t even begin to explain it - it’s something almost as necessary as breathing. He means that literally, too; the entire time Sam was…gone, it felt like he didn’t breathe at all. He can’t live without knowing his brother’s around somewhere, even if it’s somewhere far away from him. He says he doesn’t want Sam to know.
Sometimes, he’s afraid Sam really doesn’t.
There’s a lot about Dean Winchester that you don’t know. He’s good at keeping secrets…especially his own.